Eric and fiery Thorarine ?—

Thou wilt not. Only I can give
The joys for which the valiant live,
Victory and vengeance-only I

Can give the joys for which they die,
The immortal tilt-the banquet full,
The brimming draught from foeman's skull.
Mine art thou, witness this thy glove,
The faithful pledge of vassal's love.”—

XV.

"Tempter," said Harold, firm of heart,
“I charge thee, hence! whate'er thou art,
I do defy thee-and resist

The kindling frenzy of my breast,
Waked by thy words; and of my mail,
Nor glove, nor buckler, splent, nor nail,
Shall rest with thee-that youth release,
And God, or Demon, part in peace."-
"Eivir," the Shape replied, "is mine,
Mark'd in the birth-hour with my sign.
Think'st thou that priest with drops of spray
Could wash that blood-red mark away?
Or that a borrow'd sex and name

Can abrogate a godhead's claim ?”

Thrill'd this strange speech through Harold's brain,

He clench'd his teeth in high disdain,
For not his new-born faith subdued

Some tokens of his ancient mood.

"Now, by the hope so lately given
Of better trust and purer heaven,
I will assail thee, fiend!"-Then rose
His mace, and with a storm of blows
The mortal and the Demon close.

XVI.

Smoke roll'd above, fire flash'd around,
Darken'd the sky and shook the ground;
But not the artillery of hell,

The bickering lightning, nor the rock
Of turrets to the earthquake's shock,
Could Harold's courage quell.

Sternly the Dane his purpose kept,
And blows on blows resistless heap'd,
Till quail'd that Demon Form,
And for his power to hurt or kill
Was bounded by a higher will—
Evanish'd in the storm.

Nor paused the Champion of the North,
But raised, and bore his Eivir forth,
From that wild scene of fiendish strife,
To light, to liberty, and life!

XVII.

He placed her on a bank of moss,

A silver runnel bubbled by,

And new-born thoughts his soul engross, And tremors yet unknown across

His stubborn sinews fly,

The while with timid hand the dew
Upon her brow and neck he threw,
And mark'd how life with rosy hue
On her pale cheek revived anew,
And glimmer'd in her eye.
Inly he said, "That silken tress,—
What blindness mine that could not guess!
Or how could page's rugged dress

That bosom's pride belie?

O, dull of heart, through wild and wave,
In search of blood and death to rave,
With such a partner nigh!"1

XVIII.

Then in the mirror'd pool he peer'd,
Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard,
The stains of recent conflict clear'd,―

And thus the Champion proved,
That he fears now who never fear'd,
And loves who never loved.

And Eivir-life is on her cheek,
And yet she will not move or speak,
Nor will her eyelid fully ope;
Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye,
Through its long fringe, reserved and shy,

[Mr. Adolphus, in his Letters on the Author of Waverley, p. 230, remarks on the coincidence between "the catastophe of 'The Black Dwarf,' the recognition of Mortham's lost son in the Irish orphan of Rokeby,' and the conversion of Harold's page into a female," ,"-all which he calls "specimens of unsuccessful contrivance, at a great expense of probability."]

Affection's opening dawn to spy;
And the deep blush, which bids its dye
O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly,
Speaks shame-facedness and hope.

XIX.

But vainly seems the Dane to seek
For terms his new-born love to speak,—
For words, save those of wrath and wrong,
Till now were strangers to his tongue;
So, when he raised the blushing maid,
In blunt and honest terms he said,
("Twere well that maids, when lovers woo,
Heard none more soft, were all as true,)
"Eivir! since thou for many a day
Hast follow'd Harold's wayward way,
It is but meet that in the line
Of after-life I follow thine.
To-morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide,
And we will grace his altar's side

A Christian knight and Christian bride; And of Witikind's son shall the marvel be said, That on the same morn he was christen'd and wed."

CONCLUSION.

AND now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary maid? And why these listless looks of yawning sorrow? No need to turn the page, as if 'twere lead, Or fling aside the volume till to-morrow.— Be cheer'd-'tis ended-and I will not borrow, To try thy patience more, one anecdote From Bartholine, or Perinskiold, or Snorro. Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who hath wrote A Tale six cantos long, yet scorn'd to add a note.1

1 ["Harold the Dauntless,' like 'The Bridal of Triermain,' is a tolerably successful imitation of some parts of the style of Mr. Walter Scott; but, like all imitations, it is clearly distinguishable from the prototype; it wants the life and seasoning of originality. To illustrate this familiarly from the stage: We have all witnessed a hundred imitations of popular actors-of Kemble, for instance, in which the voice, the gesture, and somewhat even of the look, were copied. In externals the resemblance might be sufficiently correct; but where was the informing soul, the mind that dictated the